


"Welcome to the team!"

by RogerStenning



Series: The Roic Files [4]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogerStenning/pseuds/RogerStenning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The start of a long journey is always begun with one foot moving forwards...</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Welcome to the team!"

**"Welcome to the team!"**  
  
  
A Vorkosigan FanFic  
By Roger Stenning  
  
Based on the characters, situations, and universe created, set, and owned by  
Lois McMaster Bujold. The contents of this story are for personal, non-commercial  
use only. Any use of Lois McMaster Bujold's copyrighted material or trademarks  
anywhere in this story should not be viewed as a challenge to those copyrights  
or trademarks. This disclaimer must remain as an integral part of this file.  
The material in this story may be used/abused by other FanFic authors, provided  
that credit is given where credit is due - "Turnabout is fair play"!  
Copyright 2010, Roger Stenning.  
  
***  
  
This FanFic was inspired by a line in the Novella  
"Winterfair Gifts" by Lois McMaster Bujold.  
  
***

  
Armsman Commander Pym's Recruiting approach in the Main Square that evening, set a chain of events off for Roic. He talked to his family and friends, in that order, excluding André, his Municipal Guard partner, who'd been there when Pym had made the 'proposition' as he called it; he researched the Armsmens' historical and current positions, both legally and socially, as well as Feudally, and was humming and hawing over what to do about it, when Lieutenant Dutzetov asked, a week later, what he intended to do. He'd been honest enough with his boss. The "I haven't a blessed clue, sir" answer had, it seemed, been expected.  
  
The Lieutenant passed a very expensive-looking envelope made from a tan-coloured cartridge paper, over to Roic. It was addressed to Roic's Official Address in hand-written calligraphy, and bore the Admiral Count Vorkosigan's mountain-and-maple logo in the top left corner. Inside, there was a single card, this time of a heavy-weight textured card, again in hand-written calligraphy, that Roic had some difficulty in reading. He looked over at Lieutenant Dutzetov with a querulous look on his face.

Dutzetov smiled, and enlightened him. "It's an invitation for a day visit, to see how they do things there. It came with this letter, in a more readable printed manner." He passed it over. "I think they really want you, Roic. For what it's worth, rumour has it that they're looking for fresh blood in the Contingent, and that they want 'em tall. You fit the bill, and it appears that they've rejected half a dozen PotRecs already." He meant Potential Recruits. The Lieutenant still had his Imperial Service jargon head on, ten years after leaving the Service. He continued, "They called me, and asked when you take your regular day off, and then messengered that over," he nodded to the envelope in Roics' hand, "within half an hour of the call. Tells me a lot. Should tell you the same thing. I won't mislead you: I think you've got a great career going here, Roic, but to serve in an Armsman Contingent is one of the highest honours that we non-Vor types get, and you should at least give them a chance to see what they're on about, before you make your mind up. It's an RSVP invitation. You want to call them from here?".  
  
Put like that, what choice did he have? His call was taken by one of the household staff, a fairly stiff-necked middle-aged man, who looked down his nose to the comm screen, announced himself as the "Under Butler to Lord Vorkosigan", and stated down his nose "I will, of course, be happy to pass your affirmation of attendance onto Armsman Commander Pym at my earliest convenience. Will there be anything else, sir?". While assuring the man that this was what he would like, and that there was nothing more, Roic irreverently assumed that the man was paid by the number of superfluous words he spoke in each sentence...  
  
So, the very next week, Roic, in his best civilian kit - his only suit, which he'd had cleaned and dry-pressed specially, and his best shoes, highly polished to as near as damn it a mirror finish that had taken him a whole week to get right - was stood, as instructed in the letter, at the side entrance to Vorkosigan Residence in Hassadar Main Square North, presenting the note and his Guard ID to the ImpSec Corporal on duty there, who had him finger print- and retina-scanned for entry, then walked through the weapons scanner hoop at the gate, before being granted access to the imposing bulk of the Counts' Residence, and being met by none other than the Armsman Commander himself, Pym, just inside the door and who was, as usual, kitted out in his knife-edge pressed House Uniform, heavy stunner, and mirror shined half boots (that had probably taken only ten minutes to polish, probably some kind of Imperial Service trick they taught all Service Recruits in Basic Training, along with all the rest of the spit and polish rubbish)..  
  
"Good morning, Guardsman Roic."  
  
"Morning, Armsman Commander. Thanks for the invitation."  
  
"You're welcome. We felt a form of 'orientation' was in order, to allow you to make a more informed decision. In any event, thank you for being so punctual. It's a trait that seems to be sadly lacking in many people, these days." Roic blinked. _Hang on a tick. Was that a dig? He's just had a pop at all civilians! Cheeky elitist bugger!_  
  
"I've noticed. I've also noticed, though, that it's amazing how some peoples' punctuality is improved, say by a summons to be at court at a certain time," observed Roic, somewhat wryly. _Let's see how you respond to that one, tovarisch!_  
  
Pym snorted a slight smile. "I wouldn't know, since I've never had cause to be summonsed," he retorted, somewhat smugly, _Oh yeah, it was a dig alright!_ Pym continued, "Shall we get your orientation started?"  
  
"Please." _It'll keep. Revenge is a dish best served frozen, after all!_  
  
The 'orientation', as Pym called it, was a brief tour of the Counts' Residence, excluding the residential floors, but including the waiting rooms (Parlours, Pym called them), Ready Room (a secured and large room in the basement, occupied by a pair of Armsmen, a pair of ImpSec NCOs, a large bank of monitors from every camera in the immediate area of the Residence, both inside and out, and several somewhat bulky comconsoles - bulky as they were secured, Pym noted to Roic, who would instead have called the room a command centre), the small staff canteen, the kitchens, vehicle garages, living-in staff accommodations, and the grounds out the back of the buildings. Roic knew that not many people were invited to the gardens; it was primarily the Counts' private garden, but was also used to host the rare formal garden parties that the calendar required a couple of times a year, and unlike the garden of the Residence in Vorbarr Sultana, he was informed, no large looming buildings overlooked the garden here, which made security "a damn sight easier to maintain". Seemed that General Count Piotr Vorkosigan had added an edict into local planning laws a fair few decades back when Hassadar was first established as the new District Capital, that no building could be built in Hassadar that could possibly see into the Garden. Made sense.  
  
Even with the Count and Countess off-world on Sergyar, performing their Viceroy and Vicereine duties there, the residence was a hellishly busy place; servants were all over the place, cleaning, replacing, freshening, and generally tarting the place up; Pym commented on that, having noticed Roic glancing about at all the activity. "M'lord Vorkosigan's hosting a dinner party for some of the local business and political dignitaries this evening. The place isn't normally this busy. Sorry, he only dumped this on us a day or so ago. I'm told that the head of the Domestic Staff damn near tore his hair out in private just after he was informed, but then no-notice events are m'lord's... er... specialities, after all." He grunted in wry amusement. Obviously something of an inside joke, there. "M'lord Vorkosigan's like that a lot, and you'll come to understand that if - hopefully when - you join the Contingent."  
  
The tour took up roughly an hour; the details of the job were next on the schedule, and that was discussed in Pym's ground floor Armsman Commanders' Office, over coffee and some sandwiches.  
  
Pym leaned back into his chair, regarding the sandwich he was munching on. "These ones are alright, but you should really try the ones at the residence in Vorbarr Sultana. M'lord's cook, Ma Kosti, is some kind of magician with food. It'll make your taste buds sit up and take notice, mark my words."  
  
"I'm rather partial to Shashlyk, sir."  
  
"I like 'em too, but only when Ma Kosti's not about. The Kitchen staff here don't do to badly in making them, either." He smiled, and finished off his sandwich in one bite and a fairly comprehensive chewing, and washed it down with the remains of his coffee, before continuing. "One of the rules we pinched off ImpSec, and it's a good rule, as it's defended us against a number of security problems over the years, is that we only eat what's been prepared for us by our own sources; in ImpSec's case, that's pre-packaged ration packs or container foods from their own cooks, although they have relaxed that for us, for historical reasons – they now eat the same stuff as we do here."  
  
"That seems to make sense", offered Roic.  
  
"Security concerns frequently don't make sense, but you get used to that soon enough in this game," Pym replied. He refilled his coffee from the carafe on the table, offering the same to Roic, who wisely declined; this was shaping up to be a longer day than he'd expected. Pym continued. "In our case, it's got to be from our own kitchens for the duty staff; all our suppliers change on a regular basis, and are blind buys – they don't know they're supplying us from one week to the next, and despite Ma Kostis' preferences, there are no preferred suppliers for any food stuffs at all. That's administrative security too, but important to know."  
  
He glanced around the room, taking in the various displays, and carried on. "That's the thing about a Counts' Armsmen; we have to know a whole raft of little things, details, reasons why things are one way and not another, and so on; it provides defence in depth on the knowledge front, because, at the business end of things, it's the little details that may well wind up saving lives, not just ability at hand to hand or armed combat, or the ability to get in the way of a maniac with an auto-needler – or worse, but to spot when something isn't the way it should be, and to react appropriately, if you catch my meaning."  
  
He raised a hand, and started ticking off things by raising his fingers, then dropping them again as the count rose above five. "And just to add to the load, we have to know how to behave in practically every social setting bar none, as we're called on to be at our principals' sides all day, every day, without fail. We are, in the truest and most evident manner, the last line of defence that they'll have. It's our reason for existence. When you consider, too, that the family's responsible for the smooth running of the entire District, everything from making sure the lights go on in the most remote of locations, that health care, Guard, Firewatch cadre, and so on, has to be manned and operational, that taxes are correctly assessed and collected fairly, and so on, it's a pretty damn heavy load the family's asked to maintain, even though they farm most of the administration of the District out to their staff; then there's the additional hats they wear; m'lord Count, for example, and Countess Vorkosigan too, are in charge of an entire planet for the Empire, and that's a load by any standard you care to use; then there's Lord Vorkosigan himself, he's an Imperial Auditor, and those duties take him all over the place. Finally, there's Lord Mark, a business tycoon in the making, so we're informed, but they all have their tasks, responsibilities, and routines, and it's our job, the Armsmens job, to make sure that not only is their day to day routine as easy for them as possible, but that they're protected from all hazards and harm, especially when they're all here, under the same roof."  
  
He leaned back into his chair. "It does, I'll admit, sound like a lot, but in actual fact, it's mostly boring repetition of routine, day in, day out, and eternal vigilance. You won't – unless things really get bent out of shape writ large – be noticed by the public, and you won't see much career progression – it's very much, and pardon the phrase, dead mens' shoes, in this job, as it's promotion by seniority and ability, as judged by myself and the m'lord Count. And in this job, remember, promotion brings its own challenges and responsibilities that are fully an order of magnitude harder than most walks of life. However, you do get the satisfaction of knowing that you're protecting one of the most important families in the Empire, who've helped shape, and continue to shape, the Empire through loyal service, body and blood."  
  
He got up, walked around the desk, and sat on the corner opposite Roic. "That's the duty side; there're perks too. Full medical care, including dental, for you and your immediate family and kids, if you have any; a reasonable salary, non-contribution pension, ‘Grace And Favour' housing should you need it – we certainly do in Vorbarr Sultana, the place is hellishly expensive to live in commercially available private accommodations – free uniform and issued weaponry, four weeks leave annually, and while you won't use it much, there's also mostly free, and in other cases subsidised, on-world off-duty travel, and so on."  
  
He glanced over at a set of filing cabinets in the corner with a slight look of distaste. "There's a brochure from ages back knocking around here somewhere, I really have got to find it and update it sometime, but that's the broad strokes, anyway."  
  
He stood up again, and glanced out of the window, overlooking the garden. A pair of ImpSec soldiers were walking past, and they nodded to Pym politely. He nodded back through the glass, and shielded from Roic, waved some kind of signal probably, thought Roic, an 'all well' gesture. They had them in the Guard. Four fingers, thumb tucked in, in a brief hand-up/palm-out, wave. The exact origins of the signal had been lost in the mists of time, but it was historically known as the 10-4 signal, meaning ‘all's well'. Pym turned back to Roic.  
  
"Now, note that by Imperial Law, we're limited to twenty Armsmen at any one time; this means that when one of our number is retiring, or leaves through other means," Roic knew what that meant, "we have to look for a replacement. We don't advertise; we'd be snowed under with applicants. Instead, we await blind nominations from a variety of sources, mostly sent in on the off-chance that we might be looking for someone. Hitherto, we've tended to look for certain kinds of twenty-year men from the Imperial Service, but that's mainly been because of m'lord Count's Service background. It's helped to keep training costs down, as well, truth be told. Anyhow, he delegated the replacement of Armsman Sekharich, who's been with us," he glanced at the ceiling, calculating length of service, and continued, "what, thirty years, damn near, and is due to retire in a couple of months, to Lord Vorkosigan, who then told me that he wanted someone younger, and to widen the recruiting to other areas. He left that selection to me. And here you are, my preferred recruit."  
  
Roic raised an eyebrow, and piped up. "Preferred?"  
  
"Yup. You're a guardsman, so you've done a form of paramilitary-style training to get the job; you're familiar with stunners and other weapons to one degree or another, and you're trained in basic hand-to-hand combat. You've a solid work record behind you, a below-average sickness record, and seem to enjoy the job, with a good number of solid arrests behind you. In addition, you passed District security screening to get the job in the first place, and we've had a basic background check done by ImpSec before approaching you, which you passed without any problems or flags. Add to this you're in the age bracket m'lord specified, you're tall, and thus imposing on those who might seek to do the family harm, and you don't hang about when the smelly stuff hits the fan, as recent events in the square showed;" he nodded in the direction of the Main Square, "in short, you're the man we're looking for. Any questions thus far?"  
  
Roic nodded. "You mentioned that there was a basic ImpSec check done on me. That was done when I first joined the Watch, anyhow. Am I going to have another, more in-depth check as well, if I chose to join?"  
  
Pym was pleased. The lad caught on quickly. "By necessity, yes. And I hate to say it, but it'll be a Fast-Penta assessment, done at the local ImpSec headquarters, by a specialist team from ImpSec HQ at Vorbarr Sultana." he held up a hand forestalling the interruption that he saw coming from Roic, and carried on quickly, "It's because of the Count and Countess's off-world duties, and m'lord Vorkosigans' post as an Imperial Auditor, not to mention their, and perforce our, frequent proximity to the Emperor. Problem?"  
  
"No; I just prefer being the one asking the questions. And Fast-Penta's not a very friendly drug, after all. I've seen a few Fast-Penta Interrogations at Guard Central - and the Tancek Murder year before last meant we had to FPI the entire bloody family. Even the kids. Not at all nice, that."  
  
Pym winced. "I'd imagine not. I don't recall that one: Why was it necessary?"  
  
Roic pulled a face. "It was close to midsummer, so I think you lot would've been up at the residence in Vorbarr Sultana." Pym nodded; the timing sounded right. Roic continued. "It was horrendous. The head of the family was really messily offed with kitchen knives. Made the local vids - from outside the place, thankfully - but inside, it was like an abattoir; there was blood everywhere, and a totally contaminated crime scene from the get-go, but it had all the hallmarks of a botched burglary, broken windows, ransacked and messed-up lower level, the works. If it hadn't been for the entire family having tromped through the bloody place before we got there, chances are the poor cow'd'a got away with it. As it was, Sergeant Meklov, my previous shift Sergeant, was twitchy about it, said that it didn't smell right, but that he couldn't put his finger on why, so called in the Lieutenant, who got the ball rolling on hauling in some of Lord Vorbohn's MG Detectives from Vorbarr Sultana, since we don't have that many crimes requiring professional detectives. Well, not yet, at least. Anyway, they decided Meklov was right, and we detained the entire family for a series of FPIs. We had to get Count's Warrants of course, but by then, it was so bloody public that it wasn't a major issue. They cracked it after the fifth FPI." Roic shook his head sadly.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Seems that the daughter did it, and for fairly understandable reasons - she was long-term abused by the Da, and had finally snapped." Roic shrugged slightly, as Pym winced. Yeah, that'd tend to do it, alright. Nasty. Roic continued, "She's in the District Funny Farm, now. Helluva mess, but there y'go. My unending memory of it, though, was the younger son. They botched his FPI out of shape and then some. Poor lad, he was guilty in his mind of all manner of rubbish, none of it criminal, of course, but you find a seventeen year old lad who doesn't keep secrets from his family, and I'll show you a liar. Didn't help that he's gay, either. Even now, families tend to shun those poor sods. Anyway, the result was that he kept confessing to everything - the questions weren't nearly as well-aimed as they should have been, but what did I know at the time? I wasn't running that damn dog and pony show. Poor lad needed counselling afterwards, and not just because of the murder. The lawsuits still going through the Counts' Civil Court. Could wind up costing the Guard a packet." Roic shrugged, slightly. "You'll understand if I'm a little leery of FPIs, after that."  
  
Pym pulled a slightly shocked face. "I can imagine. Were there any repercussions for the interrogation?"  
  
"Yeah. The District Criminal Court Magistrate commented about it in open court, and there was a public rant from all the local vids: Damn near caused a riot outside Guard Central. Upshot was that Lord Vorkosigan called Lord Vorbohn, who intervened personally and publicly regarding his people: The Detective Sergeant kept his job by the skin of his teeth, but lost his rank, and is now an ordinary Street Guard, and the Advisor Specialist, whose job it was to look out for the kid during his interrogation, was fired, and the rules governing sub-majority-age FPIs have been changed massively in the District. Advocate and a Family Doctor must be present at all SMA FPIs now. They may even make it Empire-wide, if the court case warrants it - wouldn't be a bad thing, in my view." Roic shrugged. "Seemed to defuse the situation, anyway. Like I said, what did I know, at the time? Anyhow, that's why I don't like the idea of taking FPIs. They can be messy as hell."  
  
"I can understand that. Well, don't worry too much. ImpSec aren't amateurs, and they've a raft of experience in these matters - as has m'Lord Vorkosigan, come to that. Anything else?"  
  
"Yes; you said something about training costs?"  
  
"Yes. Previously, as I said, we've tended to select people who've already taken and passed these courses, as part of their Service duties; as a result, all the training they tend to need is in acclimatising to how we do things here. In your case, since you've not been in the Imperial Services, let alone had the courses those people take, you'll have to be sent on a few courses, lasting roughly two months in total. You'll have a hell of a hard time, as you'll be required to pass each one, and they are by no means easy, but not impossible. They'll be residential, and you'll be with Imperial Service Personnel for most of them. Those ones'll be the ImpSec Close Protection courses: Basic, Intermediate, and Advanced. And in case you're wondering, no, not all Vor Armsmen are permitted to take those courses; of the sixty houses, ten have the current privilege, due to their positions in the government, hereditary positions in the line of succession, and so on. I am not at liberty to state who they are to you yet, but you're an intelligent lad, and I'm sure you can work it out quickly enough. There will also be a few specialist civilian courses afterwards, designed to familiarise you with what domestic servants will be doing, so that you can tell when something's not right in certain social settings. You'll have, put simply, a close to acute angled learning curve in front of you, if you join us. The good news is that once you've taken and passed those courses, things will become a damn sight easier in the residences, of which there are, as you may know, three: Here, Vorbarr Sultana, and the ‘Country Seat' at Vorkosigan Surleau. Each has its' own unique security challenges, but with the training under your belt, you'll be able to handle it easily. The point being train hard, fight easy. Make sense?"  
  
It did. "Yes, sir."  
  
"Alright. Now, if you accept the offer, you'll take the training first, and, on successful completion, will Take Oath with m'lord Count: Thereafter, you'll be on call 26 hours a day, all year round, although you'd only be rostered to work 13 hours a day, according to the roster. As low man on the totem, so to speak, you'll be initially assigned to the night shift; I'd imagine that this'll probably last a year or two, until the next retirement, when you'll move to another shift slot. Over time, your seniority will move up the pole; I've been here eleven years, and over that time, a lot of the men have hit mandatory retirement, although that isn't necessarily the end of things in this game - a few of the Counts retain their Armsmen into senility, damn near - m'lord Count's described it to me before as loyalty being a two way street. In any case, preserving the continuity of the knowledge bank has been interesting, to say the least, for us. Never the less, we've managed it. I've been the Count's Armsmen Commander for three years now, and through carefully tailored recruitment policies, we've now arrived to the stage where we can recruit what are essentially basic recruits - no offence - and have them trained to our requirements without too much of a concern over the speed of training. That answer your question?"  
  
"Fully, thanks. I have one remaining question, though."  
  
Pym interrupted him with a smile. "Money?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"You're a District Public Servant 7 grade, yes?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"Minimum grade with us is Counts Armsman grade 9, rising to me, a CA1. In your case, CA9 would be roughly equivalent to a DPS 5. You'd get, what, fifteen hundred Imperial Marks a year more with us. Sound good?"  
  
"What's the catch?"  
  
"Heh. Minor deductions for room and board if you ‘Live In' - roughly three percent of gross pay, last reckoning, I think it was, and the Family's business manager, Mr. Tsipis, has an excellent series of investment portfolios for any excess monies you care to invest. We want to make sure, as far as practicable, that our people want for nothing; it reduces the possibility of someone being suborned. To that end, we've arrived at a series of private purchase discount deals for pretty-much anything you care to name, for all the household staff. Works out at roughly 25% off anything you can probably imagine. How's that for an incentive to join up?" he grinned.  
  
"Sounds better on the money side, certainly." Roic wasn't convinced yet. There was something still nipping at the back of his neck, and it was a feeling that he had come to trust over the years: It foretold either a sea change in lifestyle - he had a similar feeling before signing up to the Municipal Guard - or an impending threat - the last being a couple of months back as he chased a mugger down a dark alley, and only just avoided the scaffolding pole that whistled past his head. What, then was he missing? Something merely important, or something bloody vital? He shifted in his seat, and regarded Pym. Nothing was given away by his face or posture. _Man must be hell to play against at Poker_ , he concluded. _OK, let's ask him, then._  
  
"OK, what am I missing? What's the downside?"  
  
"Heh. Not many spot that. Those that don't, generally don't make it this far, by the way. OK, it's simple, and in a few parts. And while I'm sure you won't like it much, you will, at least, understand it. OK, first point: Your blood family here in Hassadar may not see you in person for months at a time. Your duties will preclude it, barring your days off here in Hassadar, and your periods of leave which, by the way, is block-assigned, and must be taken when we say: you won't get a choice in this, and as the junior man on the team, you are, I guarantee, going to be getting the most undesired blocks. You'll most likely be working across your first couple of Winterfairs, for example." He grunted a laugh, and shook his head. "OK, bad example, we all tend to work around then, but you get the idea. It's work, work, work; you will earn every penny of your salary. So far?"  
  
Roic nodded. Made sense, and he could live with it. His Ma might be a tad upset, but that was about it, he reckoned. They'd understand.  
  
Pym continued. "Second point: you will also be subtly changed by the job: we all are, so don't worry overly about it: your blood family will notice it the most. You'll be more circumspect in what you tell them - if you tell them anything at all, that is. They'll notice that you keep a lot of your job from them, if you don't already in the Guard. It's only natural, since you'll be protecting the Family here every moment of your career with us; you'll be more aware of your surroundings, too - even more than you are now. We call this ‘Professional Paranoia', by the way. So far?"  
  
Roic nodded. That made sense too.  
  
"Next downside, and this one's the kicker: As an Armsman, your first loyalty will be to the Count, not your own blood family. The moment you put your hands between his, and Take Oath, you're his to use or abuse, body and blood, as he sees fit. No-one can argue his decisions except the Emperor: In all practical terms, that means that if he says ‘jump', you don't wait and ask ‘how high', you do it, and _then_ ask ‘how high'. No ifs, buts, or maybes. And if he happens to say it as you're standing in the open hatch of a flyer at 1000 metres, with no gravpack, then that's just tough, so enjoy the fall, forget about the sudden stop at the bottom, and it was nice knowing you. By the same token, if there's a threat to the family here in Hassadar, you'll get them out of danger before any other consideration - even if it means your own blood family becoming casualties. You probably won't have a chance to say goodbye to them. It happened to all the Armsmen during the invasion, by the way, and they carried on, and wiped their eyes later. It's cruel, but it's the job." he shrugged. "You asked. You got told."  
  
Roic nodded soberly. Refreshing honesty was one thing. This was an order of magnitude more bare than he'd been expecting. He hadn't expected it to be sugar coated, of course, but this was... raw, in your face, brutal honesty, and he couldn't say he hadn't asked for it.  
  
"OK, Roic, I've given you a lot to think about here, just a few more things, briefly, and I'll let you vanish off to think about it. First off, it's not all doom and gloom. M'lord Count's one of the damned good ones: He treats us fairly, and well. We aren't used as expendable pawns, unlike a couple of Counts that I could, but won't, mention. Secondly, if you've a blood family problem, they'll do what they can to help and assist - they know damned well that a happy Armsman is a loyal Armsman, after all. Lastly, we help each other with all manner of things - there's a wealth of experience in all manner of fields with us and the rest of the household, so if there's a problem, ask, and someone's bound to know how to fix it, whatever it might be. Lastly, there's camaraderie in his team: I wouldn't exactly call us an elite, but we're all hand-picked, and there's only 1200 of this trade on the planet, maximum, by law. Consider the size of the population, and you see just how bloody difficult it is even to be considered for this job - there's pride goes into this job, and we make it honourable. Food for thought. Anything else?"  
  
There wasn't. Thanking him for his time, and wishing for a positive decision, Pym escorted Roic out.  
  
For the next few days, Roic was preoccupied with the decision he faced; luckily, it was his rostered time on the office front desk, so he had plenty of time to think.  
  
By the end of the week, he'd made up his mind, and contacted Pym.  
  
His notice to leave the Guard was technically a month, but a word from On High - well, over the road, anyhow - cut that down to a fortnight, during which time he took the ImpSec-supervised Fast-penta assessment. Pym was right: These were professionals at it, and it was a very well conducted interrogation. He passed it with no problems, as Pym had expected.  
  
His Guard leaving bash at the ‘Mallet & Chisel' was fun, somewhat drunken, and boisterous, and resulted in no less than three of his former colleagues getting an amused rap over the knuckles for being late to duty the next day - including Lieutenant Dutzetov, who the Captain was later to be quoted as saying looked like he'd "been dragged backwards through a hedge, upside down and back to front"!  
  
He'd had enough time to wrap up his affairs, and put the majority of his stuff in storage, terminate the lease on his apartment in Hassadar (he'd ‘live in', as Pym had put it, for a while, before making any decisions on permanent living arrangements), and relaxed and recuperated from the leaving shindig, and, two days later, following a thorough medical, a measurement session with the Vorkosigan's Tailor, and a raft of other issues of basic kit with one of the Armsmen - Bozinovich, if he recalled correctly, shipped out on the Maglev Monorail to Vorbarr Sultana on Official Travel Orders to ImpSec HQ in Vorbarr Sultana, where he reported for his training courses.  
  
He was whisked in a blacked-out van to a training centre in the middle of nowhere for these. They covered everything and then some, and he didn't get much time to sleep, either. The very fit ImpSec trainees all wore serious faces, talked practically not at all to the outsider, but didn't give him a hard time, either. It was almost a surreal experience, isolated from practically everything, bar the trainee mess and canteen, the entertainment vidplate in his billet room, and the reports on his progress to Pym, who contacted him once a week on the secured comconsole in the Adjutants office to get updates. Aside from that, his only contact with the outside world was by vetted written messages to his Ma and Da, which all tended to be the same from him, and boiled down to "Training going well, busy as heck, missing the home cooking".

It was something of a lonely existence, but he managed. He got respect from his fellow trainees when he was singled out by the instructors for his actions at Hassadar Main Square, and was then promptly put down again by the Instructional Staff in hand to hand combat classes "That was _APPALLING_ , Roic! I'm amazed you managed to arrest even a five year old girl! AGAIN!" - but then, they all were, so no real losses there. It was a strange existence, but the goal at the end of the courses was what he was looking at; the "Long Game", as Pym once called it.  
  
He came second in his basic course, fourth in the intermediate course, and first in the advanced course. He was rather pleased with himself for that: It hadn't been easy, and he'd been up against a trainee who wore Ranger Tabs for the first place. The man had been adult about it, despite only coming second (he'd been first in the other two courses, naturally). He'd smiled, said "Nice job, Guardsman, see you out there", and left it at that. No-one had anything left to prove, after all. Roic was satisfied.  
  
The civilian courses were taken in Vorbarr Sultana, and was supervised by Lady Alys Vorpatril, although Roic didn't see much of her; instead, her Household Manager, as he was called, instructed Roic for the two weeks he was there. It was almost as busy and mind-bending a course as the impsec one's he'd just taken, and the man had a really annoying habit of asking "Are you awake there?" whenever Roic was having difficulty in following what he was saying. Never the less, he got through that too (without turning the man into a Human Pretzel in the process), and duly reported back to the Counts' Residence in Hassadar, exhausted, leaner, fitter, and with a head full of all manner of things that he'd never even heard of two and a half months earlier. Pym nodded to himself, greeted Roic with "Well done, get some food and some sleep, we'll talk in the morning", and that was that. It was all a bit anticlimactic, but as he settled down to sleep that night, he realised that it was actually high praise - he'd achieved the standard required.  
  
Three days later, Household Uniform fittings completed, uniform pressed to a knife-edge, half boots Mirror Shined (Pym finally relented and taught Roic how to do it. It was ludicrously easy. It turned out that Pym cheated, and used a liquid polish, not brushes! Pym laughed uproariously at his outraged expression. "We're not in the Imperial Service, lad, we don't have time to waste on that muck and nonsense, after all!") and, in a small ceremony with his Ma, Da, and Brother in attendance, Roic knelt in front of Admiral Count Aral Vorkosigan, who was back home from Sergyar for a week, and in the middle of one heck of a busy schedule, and repeated the words of the Oath.  
  
Later on that evening, he couldn't even remember what he'd said as he Took Oath. He knew, and it had been confirmed by his Da, that he hadn't fainted, stuttered, or mumbled. He'd apparently spoken in a clear, firm voice, and had Taken Oath, but _bloody hell_ , he couldn't remember the blasted thing apart from kneeling, and standing up!  
  
Pym grinned, said that it was normal, that he himself couldn't remember Taking Oath either. "Adds to the mystique of it all, mind", he added, with a grin, taking a sip from his glass of water. As he turned to leave, Pym stopped, turned back, and with an evil glint in his eye added, "By the way, you're on night duty from tomorrow night. Welcome to the team!"

_FIN_


End file.
